Gabriel tagged the feed for future reference, though he knew there was little point; whoever was composing the text would already be activating a new, equally temporary virtual mouthpiece, ready to spout more unfounded rumors and outright slander. The dishonesty grated at him—but Herran had shown him how to game the streamfeed algorithms so that they pulled his posts into any discussion tagged relevant to Thames Tidal. Maybe that wasn’t particularly scrupulous either, but under the circumstances he felt it was justified. At least it meant anyone following the feed would get both sides of the story. He checked the posts he’d already prepared, editing and reordering, dropping them onstream steadily but not too quickly:
@ThamesTidal: Tomorrow we power London. Quantum-battery banks fully charged, ready to go.
@ThamesTidal: New vids of dolphins around estuary power plant! Environmental Management confirms healthy ecosystems, no damage to wildlife.
@ThamesTidal: TTP celebrates 10 years of tidal turbines, 5 of quantum storage, 0 casualties or serious accidents. Best safety record in the industry.
@ThamesTidal: We’ve been around for a while, folks. London launch expands on Sinkat/Riveredge service: lowest bills in city past 3 years.
@ThamesTidal: We’re at the TideFair to answer your questions. Food, fun, facts. Tomorrow in Sinkat Basin, all welcome.
@ThamesTidal: What happens at midnight? Clean, cheap energy for all Londoners. Don’t take our word for it, check out the independent audits.
It took Gabriel fifteen minutes, though Kaboom disappeared as soon as the first Thames Tidal post popped into the feed. He sipped cold tea and grimaced. Kaboom would be back under a new handle, insinuating danger, death, or malfeasance in a tone variously jocular, conspiratorial, or frightened. The jibes always skated close to, but never quite over the edge of what could usefully be reported to the police. He’d seen the pattern a lot over the past few days, ever since news of the sabotage attempt had surfaced. The dashboard panel in a corner of his screen registered a steady uptick in traffic along the links he’d laid down to the Thames Tidal infostream, and he allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction.
“What’s funny?” Agwé had appeared at his elbow.
“Just another troll sent packing. For now. The fuss about turbine vulnerability has died down, but all of a sudden they’re getting worked up about the battery banks. It’s like they think when we join the grid they’ll somehow become dangerous.”
“That doesn’t make sense. The batteries are already charged, so releasing power to the grid would make them less dangerous.” She looked perplexed. “That’s if they were dangerous in the first place. Which they’re not.”
“Welcome to my world, Ag.”
“I’m not going to have to make more changes, am I? We’ve already said as much about quantum tech as we can. Anything else and Pilan’ll think we’ve joined the Bankside brigade.” She scrunched up her face at him. “Besides, it was perfect before.”
“I’m sorry, Ag. Truly.”
“Don’t worry. It’s even better now. But I don’t want to keep messing with it.”
It was even better: a beautifully composed vid sequence that conveyed the immense power of the tides, showed how that power was captured by the turbines and contained in the delicate cells of the quantum batteries, then followed it up out of the estuary into homes and streets and industry. She’d managed to make the entire narrative of energy generation at one with the teeming life of people and plants and animals, above and below the waves. Lapsa’s calm voiceover was, Gabriel thought, almost unnecessary; the pictures told the story brilliantly. Agwé had embedded the links he’d asked for in a series of softly pulsing icons; anyone who wanted hard data would find it a tap away. But he knew, looking at it, that few would bother. They would not want to sully the vid’s magic with mere facts.
“Ag, this is wonderful.”
“It’s not bad, is it?” She looked over to the end of the room where Pilan now stood. Everyone else was drifting toward him. “Come on, presentation time. Let’s see what the others think.”
The others watched the vid in awestruck silence, as if they had not fully appreciated their own achievement until that moment. At the end there was raucous applause. Lapsa beamed, while Agwé ducked her head and looked embarrassed. Even Qiyem forgot himself enough to stare openly at her.
“Well done, both of you,” said Pilan. “I can’t see any way of making that better; anyone else?” The inquiry was directed to the room. There was more applause and whistles, and a general shaking of heads. Someone shouted, “Stream it now!”
Pilan grinned. “I think we’ll stream it at 18:00 hours, as planned. That way it’ll get maximum pickup on the evening feeds. Gabe, what’s going on out there?”
Gabriel stepped forward. “It’s mostly positive, but there’ve been some new conspiracy theories around the Estuary Preservation activists being questioned by the police and then their petition being rejected by the City Council. A lot of people have only started to pay attention because of the news over the past few days, so they need reassuring. Our strategy’s the same: keep pushing information out, keep stressing our safety record and the independence of the reports, keep being friendly and open. What Agwé’s done in the vid emphasizes that we’re just another part of London life, nothing to be scared of. So thanks for making my job easier, Ag.” Another ripple of laughter, as Agwé, obviously recovered, saluted with a flourish. “We’ve got monitor bots running on all the main feeds plus a few of the fringes, but if you notice anything unpleasant please send me the link. And remember to stay on message in your own posts. You don’t want to drop anything into a public feed that could be taken out of context.”
He glanced at Pilan. “Um, one thing in particular. I know many of us are interested in politics, but the company has to remain neutral. So please make sure your personal views don’t sound like they’re being expressed on behalf of Thames Tidal, okay? It’s really important. That’s it. Thanks.” He stepped back, feeling a little nervous.
Pilan was nodding, his expression thoughtful rather than annoyed. “That’s a good point,” he said. “We’ve been living and breathing this project for so long that it hasn’t felt like personal stuff was over here”—he gestured broadly—“and professional stuff was over there. That could be used against us if we’re not careful, so let’s not give the idiots who don’t think we’re up to this any ammunition. Okay?”
He surveyed the room. The euphoria of a few minutes ago had tempered a bit as the awareness settled in that the next stage was going to be less about bravura construction and clever engineering and more about public-approval ratings and reputation management.
Gabriel felt eyes on him and heard the mutters; they sounded terse, but approving. Everyone knew who his warning had been aimed at, and he was vastly relieved that Pilan had not taken exception. Instead his boss looked over at him and said, “Thanks,” like he meant it. Then, to the others, he said, “Right. Let’s move on.”
It was another hour before every last detail was nailed down to Pilan’s satisfaction. Much of that time was dedicated to Lapsa’s final briefing on the TideFair.
“The weather’s supposed to clear overnight, so we should have a good turnout,” she said. “We’ve got a dozen activities and exhibits, maybe more, and we’ve been encouraging people to bring their families. If we keep the kids entertained, that’s half the battle with the parents, right?” She waited for the laughter to die down. “Now, one of the things that concerns people is whether quantum batteries are safe. We mustn’t forget that they mostly haven’t read the technical submissions, and even if they had, they probably wouldn’t understand the science. So all they know for certain is that a breach will set off a reaction that will destroy the battery, and that the battery banks store a tremendous amount of power. Put those two things together and they sound like an accident waiting to happen. So, instead of us just telling them not to worry, we’ve come up with a game.”
She swiped a new imag
e onto the screen and held up a disk-like membrane, translucent blue tinged with pink, about half the size of her palm. “This is adapted from the single-watt samples we provided as part of the planning process. We’ve turned it into a pretty toy that demonstrates how the entire system works. The idea is to show it’s so simple and safe that even a small child can understand and play with it.” She tapped the screen. “We’ve set up a couple of tubs to act as tidal basins, with tiny turbines in them to charge the tiny jellyfish batteries—yes, that is what we’re calling them, Agwé, don’t laugh—and a table full of these dinky little filament-and-algae-paper dynamos.” She held one up. On the screen, a pair of webbed hands showed the charging of the battery and its attachment to the base of the toy. The pinwheel on the top whirled around, sparkling silver and gold and green.
Eve will love that, Gabriel thought. The first thing she’ll do is take it apart to try and see how it works.
“That’ll deplete the battery in a few seconds,” Lapsa went on. “Whereupon the kids can run back and charge them up again. The dynamos come in various sizes, so they’ll get to see how different devices draw different amounts of energy. It’s all very educational—especially when we ask if anyone wants to see what happens when a battery is damaged, which we’ll do regularly. The kids will all shout, ‘Yes!’ and we’ll let them take a shot at trying to break the battery, stamp on it, twist it, that sort of thing.” She rolled and pulled the jelly-like membrane in her fingers. “They won’t be able to break it like that, of course, so we’ll tell them the only way is like this.” Pilan ceremoniously handed her a pair of scissors and Lapsa snipped briskly into the disk. The gel began to collapse around the cutting blade, the blue washed out and the pale pink darkened until the whole thing fell apart into a gloopy, reddish-brown mess.
“You killed it!” Agwé whooped. “That’s terrible!”
“Dramatic license. Jolay came up with the color scheme.” Lapsa smiled at the youngest member of the bioelectrical engineering team. “If it’s a depleted battery, that’s all there is to it. If it’s charged, the gel will warm up as the energy dissipates, but not enough to burn. No explosions either way.” She wiped the slime off her fingers and into a lab dish. “We’ll dump a few of the ruptured batteries under a scanner, alongside some water samples. Everyone’ll be able to see that everything the batteries are made of is already in the ocean anyway.”
She looked over at Gabriel. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s brilliant,” he said. “If Agwé can get some vid of children playing with them, it’ll be even better. That should shut a lot of people up.”
TIDEFAIR
7
The weather had cleared as predicted and those out early were treated to a bright, sharp morning. The air smelled like it had been freshly washed, thoroughly rinsed, and buffeted clean. On the great bridge that spanned the river between City Hall and Sinkat, two people paused, leaning against the chest-high railings and looking out over the water on the downstream side as they talked quietly. They appeared to take a particular interest in the gleaming apex of Thames Tidal Power, just visible behind and between the buildings; there was an intensity to the conversation that was at odds with their apparent idleness. They fell silent as a small shuttle-boat emerged from the basin and watched as it swung into the main channel and picked up speed, heading downstream toward the estuary. The passengers sat in the stern, their wind-blown hair glinting green.
The boat was quickly out of sight and the conversation resumed, the speakers now looking down at the water flowing beneath the bridge. They strolled and stopped and strolled again, still looking; actions that had become commonplace on the bridges and quaysides of London, though few would be willing to admit that they were engaged in gillung-spotting. This slow perambulation brought the pair eventually to the northern end of the bridge, where they descended from roadway to riverwalk via a flight of wide stone stairs. They emerged onto a wide piazza in the bridge’s shadow, barely a couple of yards above the water’s surface, and made their way once more to the safety barrier.
They paused by a public infostream screen as it progressed through descriptions of the landmarks that could be seen from this point; among them was the pale ellipse of Thames Tidal, accompanied by a banner announcement that the company’s revolutionary energy technology, designed and executed from that very building just a few hundred yards away, was now helping to power the entire city. A live infographic showed how much had been captured since midnight, how much fed to the grid, how much held in reserve. All three metrics were in excess of target.
One of the pair tapped to hold so that they could finish reading. Their review was punctuated by sounds that might have been derision or dismay or perhaps just disbelief. When the screen was finally released, transitioning to a history of the bridge and its recent restoration, the lift in their mood was palpable.
They spoke for a few minutes more, looking upstream to where the water roiled around the massive piers, then they parted, one walking up the stairs to recross the bridge and go back the way they’d come, past the gleaming glass curve of City Hall. The other crossed the piazza, heading east, downstream, toward the riverwalk that led into Sinkat.
Even further downstream, in the newly christened Riveredge Village, Mikal Varsi was negotiating with his sons.
“We have to go now because I have to be there for the opening,” he explained again patiently. “There’ll be things to do, and lots of people—”
“What kind of people?” asked Misha, with an air of disdain.
“You know what kind: the kind who show up for the openings of things. Journalists and officials, mostly.”
“They’re no fun.”
Mikal opened his mouth for a rebuttal and rebuke, then closed it again. Misha was dead right on that score.
“They won’t be the only ones,” Sharon pointed out. “There’ll be people you know—Agwé and Delial and Jolay and Lapsa—and Gabriel’s probably there already . . .”
“Well, will Gabriel take Eve?” Sural demanded. The urgency in his voice made it squeak.
“I don’t think so, honey. He’ll be working.”
“That’s what I mean, Mom.” Misha’s attempt at patient explanation was such an infant mirror of his father’s that it was all Sharon could do not to dissolve into laughter. “It’s going to be all grown-ups.”
“What’ve you got against grown-ups?” Mikal asked, and then hastily, to forestall an answer, “The fair’s on for the whole day, Mish. We don’t need to leave early—” He cast a look of desperation in Sharon’s direction. “We can stay for a bit once the speeches are over, can’t we?”
“But everyone always wants to talk to you, Dad.”
“Talking to people is pretty much my job, Mish.”
“But it’s boring. We can stay home with Mom and go later when—”
“No, you can’t, because Mom has to go now too,” Sharon interjected.
“But why?”
“I’m one of those boring officials, remember?”
Four-year-old Sural stuck out his lower lip, stomped over to a large chair with oddly shortened legs that stood against the wall, hauled himself up onto it, and sat with crossed ankles, folded arms, and mutinous face, as though nothing in the world but a visit to the TideFair at a time of his choosing could ever make him move again.
For some reason his parents found this hilarious. Misha, who recognized an opportunity when he saw one, dived back in while they were struggling to compose themselves. “But why can’t we go with Eve?”
“Because you’re going with us.”
“But she could come too!”
“She’s going to go with her family.”
“But we are!” Sural piped up from the corner, unable to contain himself, immediately perplexed by what he had just said.
Misha threw him the exasperated look of one whose job has just been made even harder by the bungling of others. Sharon reined in her mirth before it could escape entirely.
On the other side of the big kitchen, Mikal was similarly struggling.
“Mom,” Misha said in his most reasonable voice, having apparently decided that his mother was amused enough to be persuadable, “Eve would have lots more fun with us. Don’t you want us to have fun?” He heard himself, and swiftly corrected, “I mean, all of us?”
“I think you can survive an hour or so without it,” was her disappointing reply, and Mikal said, “You don’t think your Uncle Bal and Aunt Gaela are fun?” with as much innocence as he could muster.
“Not as much as us,” Sural popped back with the certainty of one for whom this statement was too obvious to be contested. Mikal made a pleading face at Sharon. Sighing, she picked up her tablet and tapped out a message to Gaela.
We’ve got a rebellion on our hands over here. Boys refusing to move without their leader. When are you going?
“Mom,” said Misha, sensing weakness, “are you checking? Are you asking?”
Sural scrambled off the chair and dashed over, standing up on tiptoe with his nose pressed to the countertop, little hands with their double thumbs gripping it hard in his effort to look over and onto the tablet screen. Sharon peeled one of them off and turned it over for examination.
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